


where the hell is peace of mind? (inside the bottom of the deep blue)

by CackleFrendly



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: -whispers- that's a special tag that will help us later, Body Horror, Carl is a Weird Horse, DSMP -says anything-, Demonic Possession, Drowning, Gen, Ghost!Dream origin story i guess, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, No Beta It Wasn't Meant To Be, Not Canon Compliant, Physical Torture, Psychological Torture, Suicide, all the chapters are named after songs bc im queer and dramatic, me: yall hear summ, not much is Detailed but still, this is the first thing i've written in like 10 years, vague metions of other Original Monsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28582899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CackleFrendly/pseuds/CackleFrendly
Summary: 'I couldn't have known', he cries out.'You should've known', It sneers in return.---an exploration of an idea, turned into a proper story: what if Dream's actions in SMP weren't under his control? how far would he go to fix his mistakes? could he find forgiveness in dark waters?
Comments: 24
Kudos: 319





	1. what have i become? (i'm sorry)

**Author's Note:**

> (Title is from MISSIO: 'Bottom Of The Deep Blue Sea')
> 
> !!!HEY REAL QUICK IN CASE YOU MISSED IT!!!  
> Warnings for: Suicide, Drowning, Possession, and Emotional/Physical Manipulation/Torture.
> 
> Im assuming that you're able to handle yourselves here okay. im trusting yall with this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream has a bad encounter. He does what he has to, to save everyone from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter name from 'Ode to Sleep' by Twenty-One Pilots)
> 
> !!!!!EXTRA WARNING IN CASE YOU MISSED IT IN THE TAGS!!!!!  
> WATCH OUT FOR: Suicide, Drowning, Physical and Mental Torture, and some Mild Body Horror.
> 
> please don't read if any of this upsets you!!!!!!

Dream found _It_ in the woods.

Or rather, It found _Dream_?

It could have been planned, the culmination of Its silent years of patience — but it could've been a simple wrong step at the right time. An easy hike that was cursed by Murphy, his cracked teeth bared in rotting glee. It could've been no one's fault, honestly.

He thought about that sometimes — when he was able to think. All this time and he _still_ couldn't decide which reality hurt more.

It enjoyed those thoughts.

It laughed whenever Dream remembered his curiosity. When he screamed at his past self not to touch the tiny ender-black puddle of guck, to run as fast as legs-still-his would take him. When he remembered fingertips stubbornly stained with his doom and sobbed.

 _I couldn't have known,_ he cries out.

 _You should've known,_ It sneers in return.

___

Looking back, Dream could see the red flags draped across his actions.  
The anger, the lack of sleep, the need for violence, the obsession over Tommy's stupid fucking disks — the blooming recklessness, the decay of his willpower.

He'd never know for sure when It started to change him, but he'd never forget the day he woke to eyes bleeding ender-black and a body-once-his.

He'd never forget hearing Its laughter spill from his stolen lips for the first time.

Dream had fought it, at first.

Not like that mattered.

___

It spoke to him quite a lot.

Why wouldn't It? It wasn't like Dream could tell anyone.

It told him about Its siblings, though there was no love in that word. It sat on L'Manburg rooftops and spoke tales of the _Hunger-Wraith_ , dumbly stalking frozen woodlands, calling out in the guise of past meals. Sneered as it talked of the _Dragon_ , basking for it's food like plants in the sun, understanding all and heard by none. Hummed as It spoke of itself, bringing the fear and war humanity deserved for being so pathetic.

 _None of us can die,_ It giggled, _as long as there is energy left in the universe._

One may hunger for a time but they would wait. Something would always happen. They would return to motion someday, as sure as the sun would someday fade.

It laughed cruelly as It explained what It did to Its victims. When Dream stupidly touched Its form, it fed on the warmth from his body. When he tried to scrub it off, it sunk into his bloodstream. As he walked and chatted and laughed and lived, it consumed proteins and fats and _grew_ inside him.  
From there, it was a simple matter of slipping through Dream's bloodstream. From there, all It had to do was lightly buzz against parts of his brain. All It had to do was wait until he was too weak to stop it. All It had to do was win.

It was inevitable. It was timeless.

It called itself _'The Eldritch'_.

___

Part of Dream was grateful for Its cruelty, in a fucked up way.

See, the human body is actually much stronger than most people think. The brain limits how much strength a person can utilize, however, so that they don't tear themselves apart.

The Eldritch didn't care about that limit. And It didn't care if Dream felt the pain.

It pushed _his-not-his-_ body past its perceived limit in every brawl, in every jump and roll and mad sprint across the world. It utilized every scrap of power it could find in the parasitized flesh and left Dream to drown in the agony of tearing muscles, in dislocated limbs.  
It didn't care to eat much, either. Why would it, when the bare minimum would do just fine? Why would it, when it could scoff at Dream's silent wails when he sees deathly sunken cheeks in the mirror, when the hunger scrambled his pleas for mercy? No, it was more amusing to hide it all behind the white mask and see how long it'd take him to finally shatter for good.

Part of Dream was grateful for the pain, the hunger.

He felt that he deserved it.

___

It let Dream control the body-now-not-his, sometimes.

Control was pointless and boring, It had claimed, without something to crush under Its will.

It cackled when It woke to see what new injuries he gained from his attempts he to escape the hellish bunker It would trap them in, giggled darkly as it shoved Dream back down to rip out arrows that came from his pleas for _someone_ to hear him. It laughed and laughed and laughed while Dream hurt and begged and lost with every failed revolution.

But not all wars were won with loud actions.

So Dream fought quietly.

Between the days he shouted _not-his-_ throat raw, he wrote until hands-that-may-never-be-his-again trembled. He detailed every single fucking thought the ender-black slimeball had let him hear, how every event had come to pass.

And he wrote through the pain and the tears to beg for some scrap of forgiveness for helping Wilbur lose himself. Sobbed as he wrote of Its plans to destroy everyone he loved through him. Shook in horror as he recalled the feeling of taking his friend's fucking lives, one-by-one.

He wouldn't ever escape it, but by god he wouldn't let it ruin the world.

___

It didn't tell Dream everything.

It didn't speak of Its veins trembling against stolen bones, after a long fight. It didn't acknowledge the days that would pass without It saying a word or thinking a single thought, after it pushed the body-never-his past the edge of death.  
It didn't point out Its fear of the cold. It spoke no tales to explain the tension that formed against the taken skull whenever It watched deep waters.

It didn't need tell Dream Its weaknesses.

He didn't need anyone to tell him how to stop it, in the end.

___

The water was peaceful, on Dream's final night.

It was a few days after It had stormed Techno's home in a hunt for Tommy. The Eldritch had fallen into sleep as It neared L'Manburg, leaving Dream to stumble on legs _-maybe-It's_ by himself. By some finally mercy of the universe, he'd found a cliff overlooking the ocean. He'd dragged himself to it, slowly, painfully. Determined.

_God_ , it was vast. It seemed to be endless, and he knew as a fact that the salt water was always _bitterly_ cold in this land.

It would suck every scrap of heat from a person's form.

It would starve The Eldritch.

He pulled himself to _not-his-Its-_ feet, taking deep breaths to steady himself — and cried out in **agony**.

The Eldritch had found his little schemes funny up until now. It hadn't known that Its prisoner's plot had run deeper than surface thoughts. Now, Its ego had made Dream a threat. It wasn't ready to take control back from the human. But It _had to_.

And It was **furious**.

 _(_ ~~_And It was_ _scared.)_ ~~

It tore weary muscles and choked throbbing arteries and it _hissed_ with cartilage teeth sunk deep into bone. Dream couldn't even scream as It squirmed parts of itself into the tender lungs and _twisted_ and it hurt oh _fuck it hurt so much—_

_(—He thought of George, of Sapnap, Tommy Fundy Ponk Niki Tommy Tubbo—)_

No.

He pushed every sobbing wish for peace, every scrap of fucking willpower he had left in this crumbling body-he-didn't-care-whose, every moment of shattering pain he somehow survived, everything into his last. fucking. stand.

He stood.

And he _Walked._

It screeched so loud and there was pressur _e against His-Its left eye until oh god there wasn't pressure anymore it was PAIN and they couldn't SEE around Its wriggling mass but he still Walked and It broke from Their skin ender-black and oozing and the wails of fury-fear rung against Its-His eardrums but It was weak and he was weak and he stumbled but he stoo **d and he stood and he couldn't stop couldn't breathe wouldn't stop and—**_

It-

He-

Fell

To

The

Sea.

___

He dove so far down. He swam as long as his broken body could manage, and then swam even further.

The Eldritch didn't stop him. It yanked Its dark veins from his limbs, freeing him only moments after they both hit the stinging water. It condensed itself as much as It could, trying to keep warm, screaming in agony and _so much fear_ as the ocean took more fiercely than It ever could in a hundred lifetimes.

The Eldritch fought against it, for a bit.

_(Not like that mattered.)_

At long last, he stopped swimming, his body wedged between ancient rocks.  
Each stone larger than him tenfold, they silently watched as Dream struggled. He knew he wouldn't escape their grasp. That was fine.

Finally, his vision darkening, cold and dark water leeching into his aching lungs, endless pressure on every side, he felt peaceful for the first time in years.

He let himself stop fighting.

_(It was nearly a month before anyone knew he was dead.)_

_(Karl found a journal next to his shattered mask, and read the tear-stained plans for his suicide with horror and misplaced guilt.)_

_(No one ever found his corpse.)_

_(He'd said not to look for it.)_

___

Phil found him on the beach.

Or rather, he found Dream's tattered soul.

It was only a week after his death, not that Phil knew it at the time. He hardly knew who he was looking at, with hair slowly swaying as if gentle ocean currents trailed fingers through it. Corals sprouting through a broken, saddened mask, right where a left eye should've been. A form tinted blue with the sea, A voice tinted soft with regret.

A moment of shock passed though Phil, but he couldn't stop himself from picking up the impossibly light frame, from murmuring soft reassurances into those drifting locks, from rubbing the spirit's shaking back as he sobbed and _wailed_ with years of agony no one his age should know.  
The ghost of Dream curled his forever-starved body into Phil's chest and drifted in his scattered, broken memories. So much was missing. Most of what he had left was soaked in pain. Pain that Phil found himself determined to ease as much as a caring father could.

Dream would never be truly warm again.

But that was okay.

_He was free._


	2. asked for forgiveness three times — three times MVP'd this crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil brings the freshly dead Dream to the cabin. Wilbur meets another ghost for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter title is from 'Ode to Sleep' by Twenty-One Pilots)
> 
> JESUS OKAY THEN
> 
> so yall like me killing Dream??? i see, i see. how bout i trick yall into reading about Ghost Empathy Powers headcanons. didn't see that one coming, dID YA???
> 
> WARNING: pretty blunt discussions of characters' suicides. ghosts are p chill bout their deaths.

"I'm sorry. It's gone now."

It took nearly an hour for Dream to croak out that phrase. An hour of Phil shielding the young spirit from the biting wind as he walked, an hour of Phil quietly planning what he'd say to Techno, to Wilbur and— god, Tommy wasn't going to like this, was he?

"What's gone?" Phil felt the form in his arm tremble at his question.

" _It's_ gone." A mumble answered.

Phil frowned and looked down. "Dream, that doesn't tell me anything," his voice was carefully soft. "What was _'it'_? Can you tell me?"

He felt the spirit press himself even closer and shake his head. A whisper rose, nearly lost against the fabric of Phil's clothes.

"I didn't catch that."

Dream only whimpered, and Phil felt his heart break.

___

Wilbur was the only one in the cabin when Phil returned, thankfully.

Phil had hoped for an easy, cheery acceptance from the elder spirit, but he couldn't help but feel a selfish relief, seeing the shock he felt spread over a gray face when the door was opened.

"Is that...?" Dream's head snapped up at Wilbur's voice. "–Oh, _Dream_."

He ushered Phil inside, scurrying off without complaint when asked for something to help warm the youngest.

It was only after he was wrapped in wools and huddled near the hearth that Dream spoke again.

"Wilbur." The man in question must have startled, while Phil paused in the kitchen. "Wilbur, I–" 

If Phil had any doubts that death had changed the former tyrant, they'd be dashed to pieces by the horror, the pain in Dream voice.  
" _Shit,_ Wilbur, I hurt you. I hurt you so bad, you hurt yourself. And you hurt other people, and–" Dream cut himself off with a sob, "–I'm sorry Wilbur, but It's gone now. I got rid of It, It's not gonna hurt you anymore." Phil could hear Dream heave a rasping sigh, could picture him sinking into his borrowed wools. "I don't think It's gonna hurt anyone for a very long time."

The crackle of the hearth was the only sound to reach Phil's ears, apart from quiet sniffles. His hands curled into fists where they rested on the countertop, confused dread chilling him from the inside.

Gods, what had happened in the boy's life to leave his spirit like this? Dream had been a terror — impossibly strong, faster than anyone else, a beast with any weapon he got his hands on. His mere presence had struck terror in all who meant to oppose him, made them bend over backwards to fulfill nearly any demand Dream could make.  
But the fragile form Phil had carried didn't feel as if it could have ever carried such power. Those tears would never come from someone without a loving heart. And the way Dream said _'It'_ with such bone-deep fear, even as he claimed fault for his past actions?  
The muddled picture forming in Phil's mind answered none of his questions. It only acted as fuel for his concern.

The sound of careful shuffling snapped Phil out of his thoughts.

"Dream," Wilbur's voice drifted through the doorway, "can I ask you something?"

The beat of silence that followed must of have contained a nod.

Phil quickly wished that it hadn't.

"Did you kill yourself?"

He nearly bolted into the room, wanting to scold his son, to shout at him for asking such a horrible question, but–

"...I did."

–the answer left him gritting his teeth against a yelp of shock.

This was officially fucked up.

___

Wilbur hummed softly at the answer.

"I thought you did." He shifted closer to the young ghost, pressing a comparatively warm line into his side. "Well. I _knew_ you did? I can _Feel_ it. It's a ghost thing, I think."  
Wilbur's head rested against Dream's shoulder as he chattered on. "I've got to say, it's awful nice! You don't have to tell me _'hello, I'm Ghost-Dream, I killed myself.'_ I already know how you died, and I think you know how _I_ died, so we can already be past introductions, if we want. We can get to being friends so much faster!"

As jarring as Dream Felt to him, Wilbur was excited to have another spirit around for once. Don't get him wrong, he loved his family like nothing else — even Techno, though the hybrid insisted that he _technically_ wasn't Phil's son. But adoption papers were just a formality! And when had any of them bothered to do things the traditional way? Never, that's when. Techno was his brother, no two ways about it, papers be darned.

Wait. What was he thinking about? Oh! Right! Ghost-Dream!

The only issue he'd ever had when living with his family was the fact that they were all alive. Not that he wanted them to die, he absolutely didn't, but they didn't _get it_ , you know? Things were _different_ to the dead; he could Feel things. Emotions. And people! Most of the things he Felt were people. And Carl. Carl always Felt weird.  
But he'd never be able to talk about it with anyone who wasn't dead. None of them could understand, and that was okay. He was happy to use his Feeling to give blue whenever someone felt all sharp-sad, smooth that sharpness to something closer to wavy-happy.  
But now he could talk to Dream! He might need some guidance though; it had taken Ghostbur quite a bit to figure out what all the different Feelings meant.  
Oh, he could teach Dream ghost-stuff! He might not know how to hover, or phase through stuff, or how to give people Blue! Or was Blue specific to Wilbur? Would Ghost-Dream have a different color to give out? Would Dream's help with different emotions? Oh, he just didn't know! But he could learn! They'd learn so much from talking each other! Wilbur honestly couldn't wait to-

A mumble from Dream had Wilbur shaking away his eager thoughts. "Sorry, what'd you say?"

"We're not friends."

Wilbur blinked.

Eh?

"Why not?" He asked, genuinely curious. He couldn't remember ever being mean to Alive-Dream, and he'd only just met Ghost-Dream. Was something wrong?

The younger shivered, presence welling up with the sharp-sad Feeling. "I hurt you. I can't remember how, but _I hurt you,_ Wilbur." Dream quickly shook his head. "We can't be friends, we just _can't._ "

Wilbur scoffed, relaxing back into Dream's side. "Well, I can't remember whatever you did either. So I don't see how it matters now."

Dream spoke again after a pause. "...just because we can't remember it happening doesn't mean it _didn't._ "

Wilbur hummed pleasantly. "That's fair, I guess." He turned his head, smiling up at Dream's frowning mask. "But things are different now, yeah? We're both dead." He waited for a nod, and continued; "We're not Alivebur and Alive-Dream anymore, so why should whatever _they_ did mess with Ghostbur and Ghost-Dream?"

Wilbur couldn't see Dream's face, but he could Feel that Dream was slowly considering his words. Even better, he could Feel that jarring presence start to lose its sharpness, start to turn pleasantly round in that way that meant 'hope'.

A wonderful idea popped into Wilbur's mind, and he quickly sat up. "I say that we get to have a complete do-over! Whatever happened, happened. But from now on, it doesn't get to mess with us being friends."

Dream stared at him, that rounded hope Feeling like nervous bubbles of seafoam. "...are you sure?" He asked hesitantly.

Wilbur answered with a grin and an outstretched hand.

"Hello!" He chirped. "I'm Ghostbur! I told my dad to kill me!"

The new tears that dripped past Dream's mask Felt wavy and candy-sweet with joy as Dream slowly shook Wilbur's hand.

"I'm Ghost-Dream," he murmured. "I threw myself off a cliff and drowned."

_(Neither of them heard Phil heave a shaky sigh.)_

_(Neither noticed the conflicted relief Phil felt at their willingness to throw away their pasts.)_

_(Neither of them knew that Phil had finally decided which room he would move Dream into.)_

  
"It's nice to meet you, Dream!"

"It's nice to meet you, Wilbur."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ,,,,,,seriously tho im like never gonna respond to comments bc Anxious but im reading them all with such a dumb grin tHANK YOU


	3. crazy words / it's hard, sometimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream remembers a bit. Phil remembers too much. Someone's home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (chapter title from 'Ode to Sleep' and 'Ride', both by Twenty One Pilots)
> 
> WARNINGS: implied amputation/mutilation, panic attack (not detailed), self-deprecation. and Phil not having a great time on memory lane.
> 
> G O D THIS ONE KICKED MY ASS TO WRITE IM SO SICK OF IT AGGSGAHN.
> 
> but now it's done, yaay

The two ghosts spent more than an hour by the hearth, warm and comfortable as they spoke.

That's not entirely accurate — Wilbur was speaking, but Phil was pretty sure that Dream hadn't said anything since he'd introduced his suicide. Either that, or he just stopped talking anytime Phil came in the room.  
And come through the room Phil had, after he'd decided that Dream was staying in the cabin. He handed them cups full of hot chocolate, much to Wilbur's glee, and come back later to refill their mugs.

The dead don't need food — Phil found himself smiling as he set the spare room up for its new occupant, thinking of how both spirits held their mugs with a reverent air.   
They don't _need_ it, but everyone can appreciate a warm drink.

Maybe that's why so many cultures leave offerings at the graves of loved ones.

_(Techno taught him that.)_

He finally stepped back to give the rough bedroom a once-over. No more dust, a chest of drawers, a lovely little desk, and the spare bed they'd had in storage.  
It would do for now, Phil decided, but it was a bit too plain. Maybe he could bring in some candles? Leave a couple of those empty journals Techno bought a few months ago? He didn't want to assume anything about ghosts as a whole, but Wilbur was always quite happy whenever he had new journals, so it wouldn't hurt to see if Dream liked them as well.

"Did I take something from you?"

Phil startled — but smiled, turning to the doorway. Dream stood there, utterly silent, his gaze somehow tightly locked with Phil's despite the pale porcelain covering most of his face.

Phil slowly frowned as he processed the question. "What d'you mean?"

Dream's shoulders rose in a small shrug.

"I don't remember you very well. But I _do_ remember you," he explained, voice tight and rasping. "You're missing something. I'm pretty sure it was important to you, you wouldn't just. Get rid of it. so–" he paused, shifting uncomfortably in the doorway. "...I thought. Maybe I took it from you."

_("–warned you–")_

"Not sure what you're thinking of, mate." Phil's voice was far steadier than he felt it should be, considering how his heart was suddenly pounding. "Do you remember anything about it?"

_("–punishment–")_

Dream's fingers clenched against the borrowed wools.  
"I. I think it was. On your back...?"

_(–fingers curled around an ax burning pain screaming feathers f **al** l **i** n **g** **h** e **avy with blood shattered snapped–)**_

"Ah. Yeah, I. I know what it was."

New, unbroken feathers shifted under Phil's skin. He focused on that sensation, willed himself to breathe through the fog, to speak to the ghost of a thief. 

"Well, you _did take it_ –"

**_("–I said no flying, Phil.")_ **

"–but I got it back just fine." He forced himself to smile at Dream. "No hard feelings, yeah? You're not the same person anymore. It's fine."

Dream watched silently as Phil flitted around the room, making tiny adjustments to where the furniture stood, how the sheets lay. Busywork. Needless. Distracting.

"... _You're_ still the same person, though." Dream murmured.

Phil wasn't so sure about that.

___

  
He left Dream to get settled in, sent Wilbur up to help out, and filled the rest of his day doing whatever he could think of.

They needed more firewood brought inside. The mantle was a bit cluttered, wasn't it? Those chests were a complete mess. Was the couch always sitting off-center in the living room? There were shelves of books covered in dust, that just couldn't stand.  
All of it needed fixing, all of it needed to be done so he could stop thinking about frigid metal twisting between joints.

_("–if you'd stop bringing them out, I wouldn't have to–")_

–Oh, the hunter's pot was getting low.

He should fix that.

___

  
It was morbidly ironic, that handling a knife was what finally let him relax his shoulders.  
It made a certain amount of sense; the threat of chopping off something important was far more immediate and real than his memories, far more deserving of his attention.

Phil grumbled to himself as he swept the final few bits of vegetable into the simmering stew. Dammit, he thought he was over this.  
He'd had it under control for so long. Since before Techno broke him out of L'Manburg, when he was trapped inside his own house. Christ's sake, it had _happened_ in that house, and he'd been okay. He shouldn't have flipped his shit because Dream — _Ghost_ –Dream, less than a shadow of the person that hurt him — happened to remember something about him. That was ridiculous.

He should be stronger than that.

"Jeez, what'd that pot do to you?"

Phil jumped with a loud swear, nearly burning himself as he whipped around to the man watching him from the kitchen doorway.

"Good fuckin' gods– _Techno!_ " He laughed with relief, a hand over his heart. "You need to stop doing that, mate!"

The piglin hybrid only grinned back at him, swinging several burlap bags off his shoulders as he strode in, home far sooner than Phil expected.

_(Oh. Carl must've had 'The Zoomies' today, as Techno fondly put it.)_

_(Poor Tommy.)_

"And never see you freak out like that again? _Nah_." Techno drawled as he set one bag down under the tiny sign marked 'flour'.

"You're a shit, you know that?" Phil's tone was entirely teasing.

Techno stared at him with a look of smug victory. "C'mon. The last time I got you like that was, what, back in the Empire days?" The smallest of the bags clinked gently as Techno set it on a counter. "I can count how many times I've startled you on _one hand_ , man. Let me have this."

That first part wasn't true, but Phil appreciated Techno's decision never to mention the days immediately after he broke Phil out of L'Manburg. When Phil was still trying to adjust to what Dream had done, when neither of them knew that his wings would–

Wait. Shit.

Dream.

He needed to tell Techno about Dream.

"Seriously Phil, what did the stew do while we were gone." There was a laugh in Techno's words, even as his eyes shined with concern.

Phil couldn't keep the apprehension out of his voice. "Something. Something happened, while you two were out."

Techno leaned around Phil to plop another bag in the corner — onions, Phil was pretty sure. "What's wrong, Phil." His voice was calm, but Phil could see the tension pull taut across Techno's shoulders.  
Phil hesitated. He wasn't worried that Techno would freak out. But he was _very_ worried that he'd sprint off to hunt the new ghost the moment the name 'Dream' left Phil's mouth.

"Techno, buddy. I'm gonna need you to promise that you'll hear me out _completely_ , yeah?" He fixed Techno with a stern look. "No runnin' off before I'm done talking. And we have to talk it out a bit first."

Techno's eyes narrowed.

" _Promise_ , Techno?"

"...I promise, Phil."

Phil sucked in a breath between his teeth. "...Dream's here."

Techno jolted as if Phil had swung a knife at his throat, eyes wide, hand falling to his sword — but, thankfully, he waited.

"The thing is, uh," Phil continued slowly, "Y'know how. How Wilbur lost, like, all of his memory when he died?" He waited for Techno's slow nod. "Well. It seems like that's normal for ghosts, because..." Phil winced as he realized how absurd what he was about to say was. "...Because Dream killed himself, and I decided that his ghost is staying here for a bit because he's acting _completely_ different, and I think he was hurt by someone who scared the living shit out of him."

They stared at each other.

The hunter's pot gently burbled away.

"... _HEHH?_ "

The sound snapped the tension instantly, and Phil couldn't stop himself from cackling like a madman. The look on Techno's face was priceless; a mix of shock, relief, bafflement, and disbelief.

"Phil. Phil'Za what the _hell_." The desperate confusion in Techno's voice just made the laughter worse. "Phil we were gone for less than a day, _what the fuck_."

It took a good few minutes for Phil to calm down, brushing tears away from his face. _Gods_ , he needed that. He hadn't realized just how much tension had built up in his chest until it was gone. He'd happily add that to the list of ' _reasons he owed Techno "The Blade" his life'_ .  
  
"...Phil?" The man looked up to see Techno's grim expression. "You're telling Tommy about this, right?"

Phil grimaced.   
His younger son was never great when it came to emotional regulation. Tommy was always excited to commit acts of revenge, to escalate situations beyond control if no one stepped in. He wasn't a bad kid; he loved people with the same level as energy and glee he had when he jumped screaming into a whatever situation he could see.  
But his already fragile ability to self-regulate what he felt was strained by everything that had happened to him in the last few years.  
Especially with whatever Dream did to him.

"I don't know." Phil chuckled humorously. "But I can't really try hiding a whole-ass ghost in the same place he lives, can I."

A wry smile flitted across Techno's face. "Chat and I could probably figure something out," he teased quietly.

Phil huffed, shaking his head. "Tempting! But no." He ran a hand though his hair — a familiar, calming motion. "...I just don't want Tommy to freak out over this, y'know?"

Techno nodded, understanding in his eyes.

"Don't want me freakin' out over wot?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so a Hunter's Pot (also called 'hunter's stew' or 'perpetual stew') is a huge stew that is, quite LITERALLY, always cooking. Fresh ingredients are added as they're needed, and bowls are taken as desired, but the pot is never emptied. It's both awesome meal prep and a simple way to preserve food — as long as the pot is kept at a simmer, nothing in the stew is going to spoil. One of these stews can literally last a lifetime — there's a restaurant in Bangkok that's had one going for over 47 years!!!  
> They're way less common in countries like america nowadays, but they were a stable in medieval households.
> 
> i could wax poetic about how damn cool i think they are. i wanna eat a really old one someday, apparently they get some really cool and deep flavors. also stew just kicks ass
> 
> oh also!!! i doodled what this fic's ghost!Dream looks like!!! he's very teal  
> https://twitter.com/CackleFrendly/status/1348528887479693312


	4. INTERLUDE: and the universe said, 'I love you.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((chapter title from Minecraft's End Poem))
> 
> eyyy short update bc i had a pretentious idea that fit kinda well for things later and wanted to write it lets goooo  
> chaper 4 is in the works!!!! it's being a complete ass about Existing, but it's like half done
> 
> Slight Unreality Warning!! nowhere near as bad as Minecraft's end, but it WAS inspired by it

The story is written to end in a certain way.

The man with a porcelain smile, chained and mutilated by purple-black malice, is set to suffocate under skin-once-his.  
His death, his final defeat in a life of defiance — a domino set to knock down everything to come after.

The ghost with music in his bones is written to stand at the side as tragedy screams through every person he loved in life. To forget every moment that makes joy worth remembering, to be left as a husk too flimsy to hold a love that is true.  
The boy with soul whipped raw is written to lose everything for children's mistakes. To be hurt for the twisted wars of those older, to win and lose battle that are rigged from the start.  
The father with feathers sharp as ice is written to kill, to crush, to maim, to win. To cry, to lose, to hide his glowing pain under rage for a child lost to glory. Never to fly again under the weight of his guilts until the world finally takes his miserable life and his soul finds new wings.  
The god with heart soft as bird's down is written to suffer a life where the words he choses to speak will never be enough to say what he thinks, what others need to hear. To listen to the voices of damnation, the voices who see the tender love he feels thirst for the sweetest blood within his heart.

"The story is set to end in collapse."

_The story is set to end in agony._

Fingers gently run along the Loom, ever-moving, ever-weaving. The digits are careful to stay far from the rollers, from anything that a careless motion could interrupt. The touch was only curious, never meant to interfere with the Creation of the world's morbid tapestry.  
Since the first moments of its existence, the Speaker had never directly interfered with the fate of mortals. It simply watched their lives play out.

"And yet."

_And yet._

The claws of the Silent click together as they catch at the threads. Not to remove or damage, no. Never to ruin the Loom's process of Creation. Simply to shift the tapestry's final image, to change it to something a bit kinder, a bit softer.  
Since its ascension to this place, the Silent has never been like the Speaker. It is never able to watch when mortals suffer.

"The story changes so easily, doesn't it?"

_It does, when its players want so strongly._

The ghost wants to feel the memory of horror and pain, wants to distract and lie and love in a way that is real.  
The boy wants to be wild, wants to run from the sickening whip that hurts him under the excuse of 'taming'.  
The father want to fly again, wants to share the sky with _all_ of his children, not just one who is of blood or birth.  
The god wants to be heard, wants his words to be enough to say 'I could not live without you in this world with me'.

The man does not want his story to end in the thick silence of defeat.  
The man wants to win. The man wants to give his life and spend his death in repentance for actions done with his hands.  
The man wants to end with the calls of defiance.

"And he shall, by what you've done."

_And he shall, by what he feels._

One grins a faceless smile, the other sings a voiceless song. Green-Orange and Purple-Blue. The Speaker and The Silent, The Man and The Beast.  
Two beings so powerfully different that they were One, forever orbiting and falling back into each other within their halls of breathing white stone.

"Perhaps this tale will end differently."

_Perhaps this tale will end with joy._

A final tug, a final shift, and—

  
Karl woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow first ""eldritch"" and now ""speaker" and ""silent" i have such complicated and deep names for these characters
> 
> watch me take Minecraft's canon and mix it with DSMP A N D with my own characters, completely out of the blue and with no idea it was gonna happen until it was happening. kinda fun 9/10 still very short and pretentious but that's ok
> 
> funny fact: this originally ended with the Silent being 'punished' by the laws of reality, being temporarily changed into a physical being bc it got Involved. that being? was gonna be Friend. Friend was gonna secretly be a god.  
> sadly i decided that the idea, while wonderful and delightful in every way, was a bit too silly for this fic. rip god!Friend. maybe someone will write a drabble for you someday
> 
> (also just TRY to tell me you didn't wanna cry the first time you read the End Poem YOU JUST TRY. IT STILL GETS ME SO GOOD, YEARS LATER ; -; )

**Author's Note:**

> if you got to here you're cool as hell


End file.
